


Holden's Friends

by lapsi



Series: Holden's Series [1]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-01-30 07:14:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12648738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsi/pseuds/lapsi
Summary: Set directly after the season one finale. Bill Tench tries to get to the bottom of what happened at Vacaville.Dialogue heavy. Relationship isn't explicit, mostly Bill being too protective.





	1. Chapter 1

"He was visiting Kemper?" Bill repeats too loudly.  
  
"Bill," Dr. Carr murmurs imploringly, glancing around the hospital corridor self-consciously. A nurse looks over, perhaps at the name, perhaps at the strange pair. She keeps walking.   
  
Bill already tried flashing his badge, to no avail. Most likely she's just curious about the FBI agent.  
  
Bill checks himself, but his frustration is thinly veiled. His shoes squeak as he turns on half a step and begins pacing back and forth in front of the locked door that Holden lies somewhere behind. Bill's shoes were tied in a hurry, and his crumpled suit and mismatching shirt strikes a stark contrast to Wendy's impeccable as ever dress. She got here maybe an hour before him, too. Does she have a private jet he doesn't know about? He's pretty sure they weren't on the same flight. Not that he was looking. He has no idea why Wendy is here.   
  
Two people coming to visit Holden in hospital, and it's his dysfunctional, pissed off colleagues.   
  
"Where's his damn girlfriend?" he asks. "His family?"  
  
Wendy shrugs, which surprises him again. She's normally far too eloquent to shrug. She turns away from his pacing and folds into a chair, staring at the closed door. "This has fucked everything up," she says, so softly, but the swear word unmistakeable. Palpable, violent rage lingers underneath. "I believe the OPR could have been assuaged. If Holden could just swallow his ego for an hour and-- "  
  
"Is he okay?" Bill jumps in, annoyed by the callousness.  
  
"He's not talking, and doesn't want visitors. I believe he's medicated, but I'm not family, and I'm not his doctor. ...he's unharmed," she qualifies, frowns for a moment, and then meets Tench's eyes.  
  
His jaw is clenched, and he barely relaxes enough to feign relief. "If he really met Kemper alone, I guess I should be relieved he still has his head attached, right?"  
  
"Bill," Wendy says, a little sharply. She tries to relax the confrontational pose. "Of course I'm glad he's okay. Of course. I've just been here longer than you, I've had time to stew."  
  
"How did you get here so damn quick?" he asks, sitting beside her now, fight fading out of him. "They called me all of six hours ago."  
  
She considers that piece of information. "I suppose they called me first."  
  
"Right. A woman. You'd be more sensitive with him. Yeah, I guess that adds up. He didn't ask for you?"  
  
"They got my information from the prison front desk, as I understand it. ...Holden would not ask for me."  
  
"No? Well, I didn't think Holden visited Edmund Kemper socially, but here we are, learning all sorts of things. ...where is Kemper?"  
  
"Back in his cell. Feigning innocence."  
  
Bill stews on that before he replies, thunderous and gravelly. "That fat fuck should have fried when--"  
  
"Bill," she warns, yet again.  
  
"Damn it, Holden is still one of ours. We can't let that piece of shit get away with putting an FBI agent in hospital."  
  
"We don't know he did anything yet. Holden's... current situation may not even be caused by Kemper."  
  
"His _current situation_? What is his current situation?"  
  
"Well, he was brought here by ambulance from Vacaville. And I've been told, physically, he's healthy. So I can only assume it was an ailment of a psychological nature, but something that was mistaken for a medical emergency. I would guess a panic attack. It would explain the emergency response," Wendy says, quietly.  
  
"And good old Ed had nothing to do with that, huh? While they were one-on-one? Jesus fucking Christ, I should go over there and ask that psycho myself," Bill says, standing abruptly.  
  
"Don't," Wendy says, sharply. Bill pauses in his step, back turned. "That reaction will only embolden him. He wants to know that he has power over law enforcement, even from prison."  
  
"I know how to interview a damn suspect without spilling my guts, Dr. Carr," Bill says without looking back. He can hear her long-suffering sigh behind him as he paces away. She's right about Kemper, and knowing that only fuels the anger further.

 

  
  
Kemper's expression is one of patient concern. Being able to rearrange your face into passable human mimicry doesn't mean shit, though. Bill's fist remains clenched under the table. He thought about changing the interview environment, using one of the more imposing rooms, but he doesn't want to give Kemper any delusions of grandeur about his effect on Holden. He doesn't speak until Kemper is settled down, this time wrists cuffed together.   
  
Ed breaks the budding silence with a gentle, entreating inquiry. "How is he?"  
  
"I guess you mean Holden."  
  
"That's why you're here, right? His episode? I heard him fall, and one of the nurses calling for help. Was it his heart?"  
  
Bill raises an eyebrow just a fraction. Could pass for genuine. Does the voices right and everything. Well, that's Kemper for you. Wouldn't have managed to commit even a fraction of his crimes if he wasn't a world class bullshit artist. He has the luxury of knowing in advance that this is the sort of man who could cut off his own mother's head and still get it up. _Win as many Oscars as you'd like, Edmund. Nobody is buying your hand-wringing over Holden's condition._ "He's undergoing tests right now."  
  
"I really hope it wasn't anything I did. He didn't seem to mind the embrace."  
  
Tench immediately tenses. His skin crawls, eyes darting upwards with poorly repressed horror. "Embrace?" he echoes, a horribly hollow attempt at concealing his disgust.  
  
"Well, sure. As friends, you know. I'm not a faggot. You know that, you've read my file pretty thoroughly, I'd imagine, what with me being your pièce de résistance."  
  
Bill's hand tightens even further under the table, white-knuckled. "You touched him?" he mutters, voice strained. His protectiveness astounds him. He wants to kill the man before him, wrap his hands around Kemper's throat, choke the vile expression off his face. He's the wrong side of the table for those urges.  
  
"I didn't think he minded." He leans forward, face rearranged back into concern. "To be honest, he's lucky I'm not a faggot. He'll have to be careful, if he starts this up with someone else with those inclinations."  
  
"Interviewing homosexuals?" Bill barely keeps his voice level.  
  
"It's not the interviewing I'm worried about. It's the flirting. It's perfectly natural to get somewhat obsessed with violent, highly masculine figures," Kemper says, now leaning back, pushing his glasses up his nose. "After all, people have always been attracted to power. But he shouldn't let on so much. Having someone staring up at you like you're the most important man in the world, well, it can be hypnotic. If it works such a charm on me, and I don't even want to fuck him, well, you can imagine. I like Holden a lot. You should keep an eye on him around some of those other types."  
  
Bill feels suddenly, violently ill. He can taste the plane peanuts, and the back of his throat burns with stomach acid. He tries to swallow, eyes watering, processing best he can. He remembers Kemper towering over Holden, finger half-drawn across his throat. "You'd don't understand our process," he finds himself saying.  
  
"You're only going to interview men who kill women?" Kemper asks, clearly unable to read the revulsion, or perhaps ignoring it to see how Tench reacts. Bill has an awful feeling he's being baited, but he can't help himself.  
  
"Holden was playing you. He's not your friend. He's not a fucking queer," Bill snaps, standing abruptly. He can almost see the burning bridge. Kemper looks offended for a moment, reconsiders. He stands, too, looking down on Bill. The chain clinks as it reaches its maximum extension. The fluorescent lights glare off his glasses and render his expression unreadable.  
  
"You know, I've never much liked you. The way you think about things is mundane, at best. I don't see what Joseph Wambaugh found so insightful. You clearly didn't provide any inspiration. ...but Holden and I are friends, and if you don't believe that, well, that's your prerogative. Doesn't change the facts."  
  
Bill has taken half a step back, calling for the guard, but Kemper is sitting again, examining the fastened cuffs with an unfriendly, calm expression behind the thick lenses.

 

  
  
The walk back through administration takes too long. He doesn't want to be within a hundred miles of Kemper ever again. More importantly, he will never let Holden back to this place. But he has to sign paperwork, and then he has to wait around for a taxi. Should have just hired a car. He jitters uncomfortably, running back through memories.   
  
The line up of inappropriate cards in his office. Holden rolling up Richard Speck's sleeve in that reverential manner. Holden cradling the shoe box, eyes alight. Holden's posture as he leaned forward into Ed's conspiratorial drawling about police ineffectiveness.   
  
So small compared to Kemper. So young and naive. He has to excuse himself to the bathroom to throw up very little, which is what he's eaten since the call informing him that Holden was in hospital in California. He washes his mouth, and is wiping it on his sleeve when he hears someone knock and announce that his taxi has arrived.  
  
On the way back to the hospital, the taxi driver tries to make conversation, which he rudely shoots down. He folds his arms in the back seat and glowers right out the window. In his mind there's the phantom of those animated, piercing blue eyes on the very same drive. Fascination. Yeah, sure. Holden was always fascinated by these guys. It's why he's so good at his job. Normal people don't collect news clippings, normal people don't call the Co-ed Killer "Ed". Normal people don't ingratiate themselves with serial killers.   
  
The word seduce springs to mind, and he clenches his jaw until the thought is displaced by the passively passing scenery.

 

 

By the time he's reached the hospital, he's almost completely convinced it was all Kemper attempting to rattle him.   
  
Wendy is gone from her seat, unsurprisingly. She rushed out here expecting a medical emergency. Maybe really expecting Holden to be missing a head.   
  
He remembers Kemper's own words, in his confession, about simply tugging on a woman's chin and breaking her neck. Hearing the bones of her spine snap. Holden's no slob, but he wouldn't have posed much of a physical barrier, if Kemper decided he wanted... something. He has to snap himself out of another unexpectedly vivid vision of Ed's fat finger resting up against Holden's Adam's apple.  
  
He sits on the same chair where he'd waited with Wendy (for all of five minutes, before impatience got the best of him), and his eyes settle on the previously locked off hallway. The door is ajar. He glances around for hospital staff, then presses it open with his fingertips, easing it quietly inwards, and creeps down the white hallway, glancing into rooms as he goes. The first two are empty, and then there's Holden, pulling on an undershirt with his back turned. Bill spots the discarded hospital gown beside a discharge summary and relaxes significantly. He must make some sound, because Holden startles and spins, reaching to his hip for a gun that isn't there.  
  
"I thought I'd finally get to see you in something other than a suit," Bill jokes, trying to ease the suddenly horrible tense room. It makes him think of Kemper's earlier sexual implications, and his smile fades. By the time he's done examining the man before him, any humor is gone altogether. Holden's eyes are flitting jerkily around the room, probably piecing together some form of ego preserving narrative, or perhaps planning an escape. He looks every bit as trapped as the poor sons of bitches he corners in police interviews.  
  
"You didn't need to come," Ford mutter sullenly, smoothing his hair flat and reaching for his creased dress shirt.  
  
"You're being released?"  
  
"I didn't need to be here in the first place. The nurse at Vacaville panicked and insisted," he mutters.  
  
Bill lets the lie stand for a few seconds, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it. "I saw Ed."  
  
Holden looks up sharply from his buttons, fingers twitching around the material. "You interviewed Kemper?"  
  
"Interview? Not exactly the word I'd use for this excursion. Why the hell did you come here, Holden?"  
  
"He listed me as his medical proxy. Then attempted suicide, or at least, made it look like he'd attempted suicide," Holden says, voice still low and quiet. "He's a valuable asset to our work, I thought I could placate him enough to--"  
  
"Goddammit," Tench snaps, unable to help himself. He doesn't like how much Holden flinches, but he strides forward anyway, grabbing him by the shoulder, forcing Holden to meet his eyes. "There's no 'our work' if you get your neck snapped by some psycho, Holden."  
  
"Won't interview them one-on-one in future, and that should take care of that," Holden whispers, eyes glassy. His lower lip is trembling very slightly, and he pulls back a fraction from Tench's hand. "The prison hospital has inefficiencies in their rotating guard system."  
  
Tench's grip tightens further in response, annoyed by Holden dismissing this as incorrect procedure. "These interviews with Kemper are over. They are not safe, and you are not safe. I don't know if he wants to kill you or fuck you or maybe both but--"  
  
Holden jerks backwards even further, horrified and suddenly angry too. "He doesn't want to... I'm not some pretty little Co-Ed, okay?"  
  
"Well, you're not a Co-Ed," Tench says darkly.  
  
"Fuck you, Bill," Holden snaps, reaching for his release form.  
  
"Fuck you too, Holden. I dropped everything to come out all this way for some goddamn nervous breakdown, I'm trying to keep your stupid, sorry ass safe, and you wanna trust Kemper more than me?"  
  
"I don't fucking trust Kemper!" Holden spits, and then raises his hand abruptly, pushing on of his forehead with rigid fingers. Bill can see the start of tears anyway. "...he cornered me. He talked about killing me like he was talking about the weather. He fucking hugged--" he stops speaking, struggling to pull a breath down, then looks away. "Whatever. All irrelevant, because you are gonna be interviewing with someone else, even _if_ the OPR doesn't shut the whole study down. The moment this story gets out, I'm fired."  
  
Bill's chest shakes with a heavy sigh. He walks over to the door, checking that there's no prying ears on the other side before he turns back. "The story's not gonna get out."  
  
"Wendy was here, and you know she hates my guts even more than you do," Holden mutters, looking down.  
  
"Wendy knows she needs you for this research. Personal feelings aren't going to make her cut loose the only guy who can get our subjects talking."  
  
"Well, then someone at the prison will call someone at the FBI, and it'll get back to Shepard or the guys from the OPR."  
  
"I'll call the warden now. You say you were left alone because of a bad changeover procedure?"  
  
Holden shrugs, and then nods. He pats down his pockets for his wallet, frowning at the floor. "I need to go pick up my gun and badge... And I need a drink."  
  
"I don't think you need a drink. You need to sleep. We'll go get a room and I'll make some calls."  
  
Holden looks upwards finally, not even making an effort to hide how wet his eyes are. "Bill, I'm not dying. I didn't just... pick up cancer during the hospital stay. You can go back to thinking I'm an arrogant jerk any time you want."  
  
Bill smiles flatly. "I've always thought you were an arrogant jerk. You coming, or not?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Do some interesting things before anyone showed up.  
_  
Holden wakes sweating and terrified. His left hand is clenched protectively on the bedding around his neck. He scrambles up the bed, sitting up pressed against the headboard. He softens his movements when he notices Bill staring from the half-darkness opposite. The reddish light shows around the corners of the drawn blinds, enough to show the piercing eyes. Cigarette smoke obscures the finer details of his expression.  
  
"Holden?" the older man asks tentatively.  
  
"I'm fine," Holden whispers, rubbing his eyes. He examines the two empty minibar bottles on his bedside table, grounds himself to the most recent memories. Bill rented them a room.   
  
He was drinking and Bill was scowling over while on the phone to ...the Warden of California Medical? Then he was asleep. Damn, he'd barely slept three hours straight since his break-up with Debbie. Despite being a perpetual insomniac, the exacerbated deprivation must have made him a whole new level of crazy. He tosses the bottles towards the garbage . One sails in, one hits the rim and bounces off to rest on the faded brown carpet. He exhales shakily, then kicks off the bedding, rising to remedy his mistake.  
  
"Are you okay?" Bill presses.  
  
"Sure. What time is it? I thought you'd be asleep."  
  
"It's four. I'm waiting for a call."  
  
"In the morning?" Holden asks, startled.  
  
"Afternoon," Bill corrects, looking even more concerned.  
  
"Of course," Holden mutters. His tshirt is clammy against his skin, and he can smell his own body odour, which certainly isn't a good sign. He must really stink. "D'you have any clothes I could borrow? I need to shower."  
  
"I'll go out and pick some up. Are you hungry?"  
  
"I could eat," Holden says, fixing Bill with a more lucid, discerning stare. "You don't need to be working right now? You can go out on errands for me?"  
  
Bill puts out his cigarette, gives Holden a long, unflinching evaluation. Without another word, he picks up his coat and leaves.  
  
Holden refuses to put on the same undershirt or underwear. Now that he's clean, he can smell the emanating filth even more acutely. You sweat a lot during panic attacks, he supposes. He doesn't really want to apply the term "panic attack" to himself, but he's also not the sort of person to rebuke a medical diagnosis. It doesn't mean he has a disorder. The sane reaction to Ed Kemper's arms around you is a panic attack.   
  
He wishes Bill was back, stinking up the tiny motel room with his cigarettes. He pulls on his shirt and slacks, scrunches up his tshirt and briefs into a linen hamper, and then sits on the bed watching the evening news. He jumps when he hears the key in the lock, but feigns pleasantness when Bill arrives.   
  
Wordlessly he's handed a shopping bag. A three pack of white briefs, a plain tshirt, some socks. He redresses in the bathroom, but Bill is gone again before he can thank him.   
  
He feels much better clothed, even though the purchased items might be on the small side. He sits in front of the still running television for a few minutes, then draws backs the blinds and stares out the window with budding nervousness. Still doesn't have his gun. The street outside is busy but the motel is set back from the road, with scattered parked cars in between. The sun has set but the light isn't gone, red and Hellish to Holden's preoccupied mind. He finally breathes out when he spots Bill pulling in, watches him turn off the engine and sit in the dark car. Tench makes no move to get out, and Holden reclines backwards in the chair, trying to keep out of the older man's eyeline. Then he hears the car door close, and hurries back around to his bed, folding his arms and staring at The Price Is Right vacantly.   
  
Tench lets himself in and flicks the overhead light on. He sets down a plastic bag and a six pack of beer, cracking a can almost immediately. "Food's here," he all but grunts.  
  
"Thank you. And for the clothes. I have cash, if you'd like."  
  
Bill shrugs at that, sitting back in the seat, frowning at the open blinds. He pulls them closed at once.  
  
Holden isn't surprised by the hostility, not really, with the terms they were on before he came out here to California. Disappointed, but not surprised. He fetches himself a plate, pulling out the container and evaluating the contents quizzically.  
  
"Caesar salad?" he asks, surprise creeping in to his tone.  
  
"Wouldn't kill you to eat something green."  
  
Holden raises an eyebrow. He allows the smirk to rise, though he keeps his mouth shut. _What are you, my mother?_ He doesn't even need to speak the words. Bill catches the expression out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Well you've been looking like shit, Holden, and you just got out of hospital," Bill bristles. "So let's make it an even week before you land back there, huh?"  
  
"I'm not sick," Holden replies flatly, though his teeth grit in the sharp lines of his jaw.  
  
Bill scoffs and pulls out a cigarette.  
  
"Just fucking say whatever you want to say," Holden replies irritably.  
  
"What are you talking about?" Bill asks condescendingly, lighting his cigarette and staring off into space.  
  
"You make the exact same sound every time you decide not to say something escalating, to Dr. Carr or to Shepard or to a subject. Go on. Escalate."  
  
"You don't know the first thing about the inside of my head," Bill returns, with an insincere smile. "Because you are not as good at this shit as you think you are."  
  
"And you're not as good at lying as you think you are."  
  
"Then you'd better get on your knees and start praying, Holden, because my _lying_ is the only thing holding your life together right now," Bill growls, finishing his beer and stalking over to get another. He doesn't speak again until he's downed half of it. "Told Shepard we were here together when you went to see Kemper after his suicide attempt. To make sure it was nothing to do with our work. How many deceptions is that now, that you've dragged me into?"  
  
Holden looks down at the uninspiring salad and then pushes it aside. He takes a few steps forwards, shoulders set confrontationally. He's sick of being lectured at by now. "You told me to--"  
  
"I told you to lose the goddamn tape," Bill interrupts, setting the beer down hard enough that a plume of foam sloshes onto the vinyl counter. "Not hand it over to the guy spying on us."  
  
"So you admit he was spying," Holden mutters immaturely, and regrets it immediately. The pettiness eases the tension, momentarily. Tench rolls his eyes and walks away to pick up a sponge. Holden follows.  
  
"Thank you. For doing that. For doing all of this. I know I said that before, but I mean it," Holden says quieter. He can see the tension in Bill's shoulder's from here, and he's intensely curious about the cause. The situation is no worse than it was last night, perhaps even better. Last night, Bill was warm and gruffly comforting. Now, it's as if Holden has personally offended him.  
  
Bill turns slowly, eyes narrowed in the dim light. "Don't try that shit with me."  
  
"What _shit_?" Holden asks, barely restraining his curious frustration.  
  
Bill is deathly quiet, stubbing his cigarette out on the stainless steel sink. Holden notices that his fingers are shaking, but he doesn't realize it is with rage until he's face to face with Tench again. Too close. Bill's teeth show in a derisive snarl. The vein in his temple is buzzing with a pulse. The older man enunciates clearly, cleanly, the very picture of repressed violence: "The shit that made Kemper decide he wanted to skullfuck you."  
  
Holden considers the punch. A right hook to the jaw. Tench would bounce of the bench and hit the floor like an action movie KO. But he doesn't know if he actually wants to do it. He blinks rapidly, then blurts out, "it was Debbie's idea."  
  
"Your _girlfriend_ told you to flirt with murderers?"  
  
"Ex-girlfriend," he corrects under his breath as Bill is still speaking. He shakes his head in response, but softens that to a shrug, then elaborates. "Not to flirt. To... subconsciously influence them to open up to me, by being inviting and warm and deferent. She called them 'womanly wiles'. It worked."  
  
"Congratulation, the Co-ed Killer has a hard on for you."  
  
"Not _that_ sort of worked," Holden mutters, letting the disgust play on his face perhaps more than he feels in this moment of exposition. "I mean, they wanted to talk. You don't let them pick the techniques apart, you create the subconscious balance that best stimulates their ego. Balance out the fraternal empathy, the invitation posed by genuine interest in them, the glamour of the Bureau--"  
  
"Maybe you should have skipped asking your girlfriend for tips on seducing psychotic criminals and gone straight to a twenty dollar hooker instead. ...oh, fuck, the cards from Kemper. Are they still up?"  
  
"Unless Wendy has taken upon herself to purge any evidence of me from our office."  
  
"Don't you try to play me off her, Holden. Yeah, her questionnaire wasn't working, but at least she wasn't all but down on her knees titillating a monster to get her--"   
  
This punch really happens, but less dramatically than it had in Holden's mind. Bill is knocked back a step, holding his jaw, closer to aggravated than impeded. Holden doesn't throw another punch, looking at his knuckles with shock. He's never this reckless, never takes things this personally. He doesn't have long to pick apart his own motivation, because Tench shakes the blow off, grabs him by the mouth and slams him backwards into the paisley kitchen wall. Holden makes a move to shove him away, trying to slap the hands off him. In his moment of defensive anger he forgot about Tench's time in the military, which he abruptly remembers when a muscular forearm is under his chin blocking off his air supply, rough fingers holding his shoulder in some kind of immovable combat grip. At first, he struggles with frustration at being bested, and then he panics because his windpipe is being crushed, and it feels awful and wrong and he cannot breathe.  
  
"I'm not sure who's more likely to kill you. A crazy man, or a sane one," Bill growls, dropping him.  
  
Holden crumples, holding his throat tightly, wheezing, and then pulls himself up. "I'm sorry," he whispers, watching Bill rummage in the freezer for ice, wrapping it in dish towel and holding it to his jaw.  
  
"Goddammit, you wouldn't stand a fucking chance in a fight with Kemper."  
  
"I know," Holden mutters, staring at the ground. Big Ed would have walked right through that punch. Probably would have followed through with the chokehold, once Kemper had a taste of how he looked closing in on death. "Believe me I've... thought... about..."  
  
Bill grits his teeth for a few seconds, as Holden trails off. Tench seems to be weighing up his words very carefully as he speaks. "Wendy says I need to go back and smooth things over with Kemper. Our study won't be able to take it if he withdraws now, or if he alleges some kind of bullshit civil rights violation. There's a chance he's heard about Speck, even if he couldn't have heard about the OPR."  
  
Holden says absolutely nothing to that at first. His legs feel weak again. He makes his way over to the bench and leans heavily against it, holding his wrist and feeling his frantic pulse. "Smooth what over?" he asks eventually. "What did you say to him?"  
  
"Told him you hated him and that you'd been playing him all along, or something to that effect," Bill mutters, picking up his beer and offering the makeshift ice pack over to Holden. "I didn't hurt you too bad, did I?"  
  
"Not at all. You keep it for your face," Holden mutters, stepping over to pick up a beer too. Hopefully that soothes his sore throat. "So ...we go along and play nice? I can if you can."  
  
"You are not fucking coming with me."  
  
"I need to. He probably loathes you, if you said all that. He really does think we're friends. You're not going to be able to smooth anything over alone."  
  
"You're not coming with me, Holden. This is not a negotiation."  
  
Holden is already staring into the middle distance, swigging back his beer. "We'll make it seem like I'm dragging you out to apologize to him. He'll like that."  
  
"Edmund Kemper is never, ever seeing you again, Holden."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia Theme Music~


	3. Chapter 3

Edmund is just beginning to get impatient when he hears the footsteps. Holden rounds the corner in all his sincere glory, followed by a guarded, and unwelcome figure.  
  
"Holden. You look much better than when I last saw you," Edmund greets warmly, completely ignoring Bill.  
  
There is a micro-expression of intense emotion in Holden's wide eyes. Kemper can't decide what. But then the young man gives a self-effacing smile, and inclines his head. "You too. How's the arm?"  
  
"Nothing to complain about," Kemper says as he leans back in his chair. The chain rattles as it extends, and he watches closely Holden for a reaction. Holden's expression remains unchanged, though his colleague is not nearly so relaxed. Bill Tench steps in an odd path into the interview room that very conveniently puts him between Holden and Kemper. Ed tilts his head a fraction.  
  
"Let's get those off," Holden says, examining the chain as he moves to sit opposite. Kemper senses a great deal of nervous energy coming off the young man, and can see the start of sweat already on his forehead. A warm day, but not that warm.   
  
Now that Holden is opposite, he examines the suit (he thinks it might be the same one, but he's never paid much attention to clothing) and finally his eyes rest on Holden's neck. There's a bruise forming just below his larynx, which Ed initially takes for a love bite, which would be highly unusual if he has been on the road with his work mate. But the position and size make him more certain that someone has tried to hurt Holden. It's only a split second evaluation, but Holden notices, and swallows. Another micro-expression, this one discomfort. Ed looks at Bill, and it doesn't take long to spot the shadow on his jaw. Curious and curiouser.   
  
They could have been attacked on the street, he supposes, but two FBI agents were guaranteed to have a gun between them. Much more likely in-house. Perhaps even over him. Bill is staring him down, but pretending not to, like a guard dog evaluating a guest.   
  
Ed decides to set him at ease for now, pulling the chain lightly to remind the man he's no physical threat. "They can't come off. Not even for the FBI. I've been a bad man."  
  
Holden nods in light agreement, and Tench sits down, scratching his jaw as he does so, eyes glued to Holden. He's not happy Holden's here, Ed surmises. And he's sitting closer than usual. If he's not mistaken, that's protectiveness.   
  
Ed's cheeks squeeze up with a jovial grin. "I'd just got everyone on my side, and now they look at me like I'm dangerous. Which is not currently true, by the way. I didn't hurt anyone."  
  
"You did, Ed. You hurt yourself," Holden says, softly.  
  
"I suppose that depends on your definition of a 'someone'. Not everyone believes I qualify for personhood," he elaborates, gaze deliberately returning to Tench.  
  
"Bill has something to say to you."  
  
Ed leans back, waiting. He tries to feign disinterest, but his mind is racing. This whole thing strikes him as highly unprofessional. Holden never seems to mind too much about that, but Agent Bill Tench always has. He must be more important to their study than he believed, which is a very pleasant conclusion to draw. Or he's being played to some end he can't presently see. That's less pleasant. "...yes...?"  
  
"I'm sorry I said Holden wasn't your friend," Bill states, the preposterousness of apologizing to a serial killer clearly not lost upon him. Kemper's smile fades, but internally, he basks.  
  
"Is he my friend?"  
  
"...that's for Holden alone to say."  
  
Ed turns immediately, to stare at the smaller man intently. "Are you my friend, Holden?"  
  
Holden opens his mouth to speak. Bill's exhausted disbelief is turned immediately on his coworker. "I'm... I'm not completely certain." He swallows again, this time with a tiny wince. Ed can see his lip shaking a little, again. "I think so," he adds.  
  
Bill's shoulders lock into abrupt angles, and Ed eases back off the gas pedal again. He leans back in his chair and chuckles. "I know it's a strange question. Hard to be friends with someone you need, isn't it? Because you have to keep them happy. And you two need to keep me happy to keep your study going, right?"  
  
Bill looks unhappy at how effortlessly Kemper has come to his conclusion.  
  
Kemper waits for a response, but neither man seems willing to confirm or deny the accusation. That annoys him, but he doesn't show it. He clasps his hands and smiles again. "Well, I think we're friends. ...and before, in hospital, I'm sorry for scaring you."  
  
"You didn't ... _scare_... me," Holden murmurs, trying his best to be tactful. Maybe there's a hint of pride in those shadowed eyes.  
  
Ed's face contorts, as he leans closer, and his voice drops. "Don't lie to me. I liked scaring you. I liked it even more when you still came back afterwards. You understand me and still you want to see me." _I wish my mother could see this_. Holden wouldn't understand that, though. Kemper could tell the talk of his "spirit wives" had already been pushing the limits of Holden's empathy. The paradigm through which Holden views relationships is still very prosaic. He thinks you can't like someone and want to scare them, hurt them, kill them.   
  
Ed would tell him otherwise, that he likes Holden a lot, and has fantasized many times about killing him. Ever since he had him trapped in that hospital, what he could have done with the opportunity has become a routine daydream. But he doesn't want Holden dead. When the girls were alive, they were predictable. Screaming and pleading the same boring shit over, and over, and that was only after he made them pay attention to him. His mother, in all her vile nastiness, her harping, she was predictable. Holden is just so clever and unusual in his naivete. Far more interesting alive. Besides, he can't really picture a satisfying murder without a sexual act. It seems pointless, the same as the wasted murders of his grandparents, just snuffing out a life. Sure, he likes to imagine killing Holden, but reality would be far less invigorating.   
  
Holden would be as boring as anyone is, pleading for his life. Ed wouldn't have long with the body, and it wouldn't be the same with a man. And then there would be consequences.   
  
He's startled out of his thoughts by Tench standing.   
  
He looks up, and then follows Bill's eyes to Holden's features. The younger man has a glazed, panicked look in his eyes. Kemper's seen it before, on people who know they're dying. His own mother, as she guttered blood from her macerated jaw.  He makes a soft sound in his throat, apologetic. "Hey, now, sorry. I'm doing it again."  
  
" _Don't you_ \--" Bill starts to hiss, but is interrupted at once by Holden.  
  
"I accept your apology, then, Ed." Holden looks up at Bill, and the two stare at each other for what Kemper thinks is an inordinately long time. Some kind of metaphysical arm wrestle.   
  
Bill grits his teeth and sits, this time even closer to Holden, though the proximity doesn't seem like friendliness. Their legs might be touching under the table, but it seems more of a power play on Bill's behalf than affection.  
  
"How's your girlfriend, Holden? Did she come out to check on you?" Ed asks, attempting to sound off-handed. He's deeply curious about the uneven dynamic he senses.  
  
"We broke up," Holden admits, fixing his tie with a still jittery hand. Oh, he's terrified, Ed realizes. A warm buzz envelopes the murderer, like the sensation of stepping off cold tiles and into a steaming bath. The intoxication of power is brought up short by Tench.  
  
"Debbie and her wiles. Yeah, we should talk about that," Bill says abruptly, and then leans in with a plain smile, brimming with run-of-the-mill hatred.   
  
Holden's lips purse at her name, and Ed recognizes the flash of concern. That's fair enough. He would like to get to know Holden's girlfriend.   
  
But Bill's next words bring Kemper up short: "What you were saying about Agent Ford's interview technique, _Ed_."  
  
Kemper's eyes drift to Holden's suddenly curious expression, and he feels a sharp dose of regret for sharing that with Bill. What he was saying about Holden's flirting was true, of course, but this veritable boy is not ready to hear it. Holden would likely take offense, or be horrified, and withdraw completely. There's a difference between threatening a man's life, and threatening his sexuality. "I was saying you need to be careful, Holden."  
  
"You said more than that. You said, he'd have to be careful he didn't interview any fags, or else they might try to rape and kill him." Bill goes through his pockets for cigarettes, lighting it and then gesturing in feigned concession at the stunned silence. "Well, the murder and rape were subtext."  
  
Ed's eyes drift over to the older man, with his stereotypical cop hair cut, his thick neck, his triumphant smirk around the cigarette. Killing him would be harder than Holden, and with just as many consequences, but the gratification would be immense. This attempt to scare Holden away from seeing him is transparent, but seems effective nonetheless. Holden has gone into a sickly, clammy daydream. But something else is bothering Ed, too.  
  
"What did he mean? Debbie and her wiles?" Ed asks Holden, leaning forward.  
  
Holden isn't looking at Kemper's face, he's staring down at his cuffed wrists. He relaxes his balled fists before he asks again, nicer.  
  
"What did he mean? Wiles?"  
  
"Debbie had this idea for how to get people like you talking," Bill supplies, still smiling, still occupying Holden's personal space in a downright possessive manner.   
  
Ed nods, thoughtfully, but the flash of irrepressible rage is impossible to keep off his face completely. _Et tu, Holden?_ Holden's eyes are darting analytically, brow creased with frustration. He looks anywhere but Kemper. Ed thinks sadly about the missed opportunity to kill him, before he had to experience this cataclysmic disappointment about Holden's motives.  
  
"It's all about stroking the ego," Bill continues, blithely. "You subconsciously influence them through feminine body language. Clever, but clever isn't always right, is it? Holden?"  
  
Holden's eyes flicker over to Bill, shaking his head more in discouragement than response, face red and eyes beseeching.   
  
Kemper decides he's taking it too personally. He should appreciate Holden's use of mental strategy, and hold onto hope that Holden sees what a higher level of connection really is. It's not comfort, it's not love, it's honesty. And honesty means fronting up to the fact that all relationships are selfish. Holden was using him, just like he was using Holden, just like all relationships are transactional at their core. Holden's always been easy to talk to, not because of the flirting, but because he thinks just like Ed in so many ways.  
  
But Kemper can't keep himself from letting out the barbed remark anyway. His pride is hurt, and it shows in the coarse language he hears coming out of his mouth. "And is acting like a whore getting you good results, Holden?"  
  
"No. It's a bad strategy," Holden admits, voice raspy. He finally meets Kemper's eyes.   
  
If he's seeking out anger, reproach, betrayal, he won't find it. Kemper looks at him like he would a wayward child.  
  
"Then we're all in agreement about how to keep you safe, Holden."  
  
Holden's breath of relief is scarcely concealed, and he inclines his head, playing penitent. Ed doesn't think his behaviour will change. Holden's addiction is as bad as his own, masochistic rather than sadistic, but a defect all the same.   
  
Beside the unusually unkempt young man, Tench's triumph fades to cold consideration. Edmund's head tilts as he evaluates Bill, wondering why he is trying so hard to sabotage his own work. For Holden's sake, ostensibly.  
  
"I need a coffee. Would you get it, Holden?" Bill asks, a hard edge on his faux casual voice. Kemper watches carefully how his fingers rest on Holden's shoulder. Just can't stop touching him, can you? Staking a claim?  
  
"...what happened to procedure?" Holden complains, nearly inaudibly.  
  
"Still applies."  
  
"But just to me?"  
  
Bill nods, deliberately patronizing. The older man is already looking back over at Kemper, who is evaluating him in turn. He's seen Holden plenty accommodating with him, his subject, but much less so Bill. Nonetheless, Holden appears to have a newfound obedience. A changed man. And apparently, Holden's delicate mind cannot be trusted with whatever Bill wants to say next. Kemper is fascinated.  
  
"I'll have a coca cola, please, if you're going."  
  
"So, what, we're ganging up on me today?" Holden asks childishly, but seems to regret his choice of words. He rises, slightly uneven on his feet on his way to the hallway. Kemper watches him regain his proud posture as he passes a prison guard. There's that ego again.  
  
"So, Bill. What is it that you think dear, sweet Holden is not man enough to hear?"  
  
"He's plenty man. You haven't met the real Holden. You've met a person who he thinks you'd want to talk to."  
  
"And you have met the real Holden, have you?"  
  
Bill takes a drag of his cigarette. "Here's the thing, _Ed_." Kemper is beginning to hate the way that the agent says his name. "We like to go into depth, with our study, but at this stage the primary focus is more... quantitive than qualitative, if you catch my drift. You do know what quantitive means, right?" Ed doesn't answer, fuming. Bill continues. "You didn't go to college, did you, Ed? Sorry, it's been a while since I read your file. Well, academia isn't for me either, but we're conducting a study and we do need breadth right now. You've already provided a very comprehensive story about yourself. You've always been very talkative. Why you couldn't weasel your way out with the insanity plea, if I recall. Sorry, that damn file. I really must go over it again."  
  
"Oh. I see. You're trying to sell me on the idea I'm not important to your study. Then why are you here, grovelling?"  
  
"I'm here because I want to help Holden find his feet again, and part of that is seeing that you're just a sick, powerless, egotistical piece of shit. Once he realizes how boring you are, and how little you have to contribute, you can go back to rotting in peace."  
  
Kemper has never killed a man with his hands, but he imagines it now so vividly that it could be a relived memory. Back when he could freely kill people, the thought of the fight always scared him off.  Not that he liked admitting it. He hated when the girls fought back, and men fight back harder than girls. Bill is not a small man. He probably knows how to fight. "I get the feeling that you two are not on the warmest of terms. Should you really be the one, ahem, helping him find his feet?"  
  
"I'm Holden's friend, Ed." _Unlike you_ , Ed finishes, in his head.  
  
"His friend. Right. How was it, your fight? Must have been just last night, because that bruise on your jaw is brand new. Did you think about killing him, when you had your hands wrapped around his neck? I wish I'd been there. I wish they'd been my hands."  
  
Tench extinguishes the last hair breadth of cigarette with unnecessary force before responding. "Fuck. You."  
  
Ed is so relaxed that the vitriol in Tench's voice could be classical piano. The clouds have parted and the illumination is filling him with glee. "Don't you have a wife, Bill?" He can see the whites of the agent's eyes, and now, like so many times before, he goes in for the kill. "I suppose that's the cause of frustration. You wouldn't be so angry all the time if you just _fucked_ him," he advises.  
  
And both men whip around to the unmistakeable sound of Holden dropping all of the drinks he'd been carrying.


End file.
